


Pass through life (at your side)

by starbuckx



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 18:14:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4845446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbuckx/pseuds/starbuckx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver just wants to see how the ring would look on Felicity's hand.  Felicity just wants to understand why everyone is looking at her funny. Pre-Season 4 AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pass through life (at your side)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheAlternativeSource](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAlternativeSource/gifts).



Felicity wakes up early on Thursday, because, well, because it’s Thursday and Thursday is Maple-glazed blueberry biscuit day at the pastry shop downtown, otherwise known as the day Felicity’s in charge of breakfast.

She can’t cook worth a damn, so the rest of the week she’s usually content (marginally accepting, _whatever_ ) with letting Oliver try more and more outlandish dishes. But on Thursdays she gets up early, drives to the little shop that had been like half the reason they decided to settle in this place and gets breakfast for the both of them.

And then she comes home, arranges the pastries in the cute little plastic plates that Oliver had bought because they kept getting distracted by eh, other activities, - _how is she supposed to keep holding onto a plate when he’s grabbing her ass?_ –and brings them to bed, where she proceeds to wake up her boyfriend with the type of kisses she spent three years not being able to give him.

This, of course, means that they don’t get to actually eat the freshly-baked biscuits, but hey, the biscuits are still great cold, and she’s got Oliver freaking Queen in her bed, so she’s not usually so concerned.

Except this morning, for some reason, Mrs. Proulx beams when she enters the shop and waves away her attempts to pay for the actual mountain of pastries she’s selected with a murmured “congratulations.”

Felicity tries not to let the fact that the owner of the local pastry shop, which she only frequents like twice, three times a week– okay, _five_ , but who’s counting, probably thinks she’s pregnant, because, no, that’s silly, she looked in the mirror this morning and she looked just the same as yesterday. She just likes carbs. She always has. And, okay, a dozen biscuits seems overkill, but she’s seen having cravings lately. Stress related cravings, not crazy-pregnancy-hormones cravings.

So, okay, maybe she’s put on a little weight. She doesn’t think so, she and Oliver do get a lot of, _ahem_ , exercise, but it’s possible.

“I’m so glad I didn’t say that out loud,” she mutters as she pulls into the car and stares at her reflection in the rear view mirror. Nope, she decides after a good two minutes of squinting. She doesn’t look thin enough to want to fatten up, and she certainly doesn’t look big enough to consider pregnancy. In fact, she looks like she always looks except, well …except happy.

Because she is happy. A little bored, restless and fed up with cooking, but happy. She gets to wake up with Oliver, and they talk, about silly things, about important things, about politics and religion and what their kids will look like – because they’re this actually serious mature couple that shares and communicates, and that is all she’s ever wanted, dreamed of, never thought she would get.

So happy. Yes. She’s happy. And also, apparently, _fat_. Or fatter. Not to mention confused.

Oliver shouldn’t be pacing outside their house at this ungodly hour. Oliver should be pretending to sleep – that’s what he always does, and Felicity didn’t think she was going to be such a big fan of routines, but this one’s theirs, she’s never had this with anyone, and she likes it. No, she loves it. And yes, she’d been missing their old life of actually doing something important, but the notion that Oliver’s face might mean they’re going to have to abandon this little bubble of peace that they’ve managed to create between the two of them is enough to rob her of her breath.

“Felicity,“ he exhales and he’s opening the door of the car, staring into her eyes. “I didn’t mean to …I mean, of course I meant to, otherwise I would have never gotten it, but I didn’t mean to …like that. You’re not mad, right?”

“ _What?”_

“Mad? You’re not mad …I mean, if you want we can forget about it, I’ll do it again. I’ll do it right this time, I promise. You just …you gotta give me another chance.”

“Wait, wait …wait …it’s not …it’s not the team?” Felicity pushes back against Oliver so she can finally step out of the car. “Thea? Nothing’s happened?”

“No. No. It’s not ….are you so mad you don’t want to talk about it? Is that it?”

“Okay, Oliver, I have earthly clue what you’re talking about, and trust me, I’d love to know what’s got you so worked up, but first …I mean, I’m not saying your problems don’t matter, except, well, okay, right now, they really don’t, because I’m not mad at you, but, according to Mrs. Proulx I'm _fat_ enough to be congratulated on our impending pregnancy.”

He blinks once, twice, three times fast, but no words come out of his mouth.

“Which is ridiculous, right? Tell me it’s ridiculous. I’m obviously not pregnant, and not just because we’ve been super careful, but because I just had my period like, last week, which you know because, well, we live together, no mystery there, buster.”

“Are you …” he whispers, voice choked, hands trembling, and Felicity throws her hands up in the air in exasperation.

“Oliver, I need you to focus here. Not pregnant. But I need you to be honest with me …do I look …do I look _fat_?”

He still seems to be having trouble with actual words, which is frustrating because right now all Felicity needs, is her comforting, usually good with words boyfriend.

“She said …” he finally manages. “She said …she said you were …fat?”

“Of course not, Oliver. No woman would say that to another. We actually know how to behave in social situations. She just said congratulations which, _duh_ , what else could she be congratulating me about?”

“You don’t …you don’t know?”

“Oliver,” Felicity places the bag in the hood of the car and steps into his waiting arms. “I know I said my problems were more important than yours, but maybe you just need to tell me what’s going on.”

His hands caress her waist, run up her spine. “You’re not fat,” he says, just when she’d begun to think she was going to have to drag him to the bedroom and try for some non-verbal communication.

“I _know_ that, Oliver. I mean, I think I know that. I would have liked it if my boyfriend could have vehemently agreed with me, but I didn’t really believe I’d gained that much weight. Mrs. Proulx is just old and is probably going blind or something.”

“She’s not going blind.”

“Okay, see here Oliver, it can’t be you’re not fat and she’s not going blind. This is a one or the other situation. Either she’s blind or I look like a pregnant woman.” She was having to explain a lot of things she usually didn’t need to spell out for Oliver.

“Thing is …she never said you were fat, right?” His hands were tight against her back, too tight, almost as if he were worried, or nervous. But what did he have to be nervous about? “She just …she just said congratulations.”

“We’ve been over this Oliver, what else would she be congratulating me about? It’s not like we won the lottery, or did something to save the world. I mean, nothing recent, and…well, nothing that she’d know about anyway because…”

“Maybe,” the hands on her back are now almost painful. “Maybe she thought we were getting married.”

She pushed back to look into his face. “A likely theory. Why would she think that?”

His eyes were bright and deep, so deep she felt like she was drowning just by looking at them. “Maybe because… you’re wearing an engagement ring?”

“I’m not wearing …Oliver, why would I be wearing a…” Her eyes went wide as she finally caught a glimpse of the glittering _thing_ on her finger. “Why …why am I wearing an engagement ring?”

“Look …I just …I just wanted to see what it looked like, and I was …I was planning something, something romantic. But it was late, and I was …it looked so right on your finger that I just …I figured I’d let stay there till morning. I’m always up before you, anyway. And then I woke up and you were gone and I …” His face was a mixture of hope and despair, his fingers were tracing patterns against her hipbone and in any other circumstance Felicity would have been all over him, but right now she needed – she needed space.

“Is that why you were …” Her mouth was dry. “Why you were waiting …” Her knees were wobbly. “You thought I…” White noise was filling her head. “You were going to …”

“No. I mean, yes, I was …I just …I had an elaborate plan. I wanted to…”

“Ask me now.” Had she actually thought about space a mere seconds before? No, she didn’t need space. She needed him close. Closer.

“Felicity…you deserve…”

“Ask me now.” Her hands curled in his sweater and her heart was so tight it was like an elephant was sitting on her chest.

There was a pause, long enough for Felicity to concoct five different doomsday scenarios in her head, but not long enough for her to actually voice them, thank God, and then Oliver spoke.

“I love you, Felicity. I never want to …”

“YES!” she said against his mouth. “Yes,” half a kiss, half a laugh, and one hundred percent the beginning of their life together.

“This isn’t how I wanted to…” He started to say, because he’d probably been playing something big and illogical like hiding the ring in her dinner – but she silenced him again with her tongue. She didn’t need big gestures. She never had.

“I’m serious, Felicity…” he managed a few minutes later. “I wanted to…”

“Oh, shut up. _Shut up_. I don’t care how …or when …I just …I love you Oliver. I _love_ you. And you love me. So just …kiss your fiancé, okay?”

Oliver does just that.

**Author's Note:**

> In fandom we celebrate birthdays with fic. At least that's the way I've always done it. So this teeth-rotting fluff is for you, Lyra! I hope you enjoy. Next time I might have to write you smut. *wink*


End file.
